She was Always 'His Own Ny'
by expressurself
Summary: Oneshot. In Sixth Year, Hermione has invited Viktor Krum to the Yule Ball. What does Ron have to say about this?


Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the magical world of Harry Potter.

**She was Always 'His-own-ny'**

"Why are you being so difficult, Ronald Weasley?" Hermione Granger, his best friend and the smartest witch in Hogwarts, asked in a strained voice. She was tired and weary, but Ron had dragged her up to his Head Boy room with fury in his eyes. She felt uncomfortable being in his room; it was quite late at night, and if any teachers or students, for that matter, discovered them in the same room together, Head Girl and Head Boy...well... Hermione felt her cheeks reddened at the very thought.

"I heard that you were inviting Viktor for the Yule Ball." Ron replied, straightforward. "Why are you inviting him?" Hermione almost fell back in shock. She hadn't expected this to be the topic of Ron's strange behavior. She felt her heart beat wildly for a moment, but remembered herself. She held herself to her full height, though it didn't help much. Ron was always tall.

"It's my own choice who I invite to the Ball, Ron. I don't need someone like you telling me what I should do." She replied coolly, crossing her arms.

"But WHY? Why do you fancy him? He's just an arrogant, irritating Quidditch star who can't even pronounce your name!" Ron felt his voice grow raspy, and to his content, found Hermione's cheeks reddened a deep Weasley red.

"Ronald Weasley! That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! For your information, Viktor happens to be one of the most polite and smartest guys I have known, which is more than I can say for you, Ron." She added as a nasty afterthought.

Ron looked like he had been burned, but quickly recovered with a blazing fury in his eyes. "He doesn't know you. He doesn't know you at all. Does he know that when you're worried, you chew on your bottom lip? Does he know that when you're in deep concentration over what Professor McGonagall is lecturing about, you chew your quill? Does you know that when you smile, you have identical dimples on either side of your mouth? Does you know that when you feel helpless, you become bossy, so that you can feel like you're out some use? Or the way when you read, you dissolve completely in your book and don't even give a care as to the world around you? Does he see these things, Hermione? Does he know you like I know you?" At this, Ron stopped, very suddenly. He started blushing his famous Weasley red, and stumbled back against his bed, cradling his head in his hands. He was whispering..."Oh God, what have I done?" over and over, like an incantation.

Hermione felt herself nailed to the floor. She stared at Ron and once again, her heart raced. "Ron," she whispered, so quietly he had to strain his ears to listen. "What...What was that all about?"

"I...I don't know." He replied, quite honestly.

"Ron, is there something you want to tell me?"

"No..." was his reply, but Hermione felt something otherwise.

"Ron. Tell me." She was pleading with him in that convincing voice of hers. He looked up at her, and suddenly, she felt the tiny hairs all up and down the sides of her arms prickle as he looked at her, his eyes gone dark and serious. He saw her smooth curves of soft coppery skin rising from the bodice of periwinkle silk, the very light curls of her hair, so carefully arranged, looping like hyacinth tendrils around her face, her wide dark eyes, her full lower lip, trembling now with nervousness.

_Hermione. Her-my-own-ny. _

"He used to call you 'Her-my-own-ny'," Ron started, looking down at his clasped hands, not daring to stare into Hermione's entrancing cinnamon eyes. "You know why I was jealous? Because it sounded like he was calling you his own. And I couldn't bear that because I'm falling in love with you, Hermione. I love you. My whole life, I've never loved anyone like I love you. And I owe you an apology too," he looked past her, his eyes glazing over. "I'm sorry I waited until it looked like I might lose you before I did anything. I'm sorry if I hurt you in any way, because I never intended on doing that. I've known you for six years. You're like...like my own eyes. Or my own hands. And just like them, I can't imagine what it would be like to live without them." His voice shook, and Hermione shuddered at his unusual calmness. "Maybe I'm not like Viktor and I can't make fancy speeches. But I know what I want."

Hermione just stared at him. She couldn't say a word. Couldn't think a word.

"I want you to be happy," he said slowly. "And if I don't make you happy, then you should be with the person who does."

He looked at her. Ron. Who she loved, not because he was brave, although he was, or understanding, although he was that too, or compassionate, but because he was kind, with the sort of kindness so rare among most people- kindness that not only gives, but gives up.

"Maybe he does love you, I don't know," he said. "I know that it's not like I do, but..."

He broke off, turned, and walked towards the door. He was going to leave, she knew, because once he made up his mind to do something, he did it. And when he said something, he meant it. And then she thought about what he had said, and thought of what it would be like to live the rest of her life without him in it. But she couldn't imagine it, because she knew very well that she couldn't ever dream of living in the future without Ron.

"Ron," she said, taking a step towards him. "Please come back."

He turned around. She couldn't see his face; he was standing in a patch of shadow. She could only see the ghostly whiteness of his skin.

"Please come back." She said again.

He came back. And stood in front of her, looking at her.

"I love you, Ron."

Nothing could have prepared him for this moment. He knew that he loved her, he knew it from the moment he met her. That kind of love, he knew, was unsurpassed to anything else in a world full of hateful arrogance and avarice. It was the truth, he could tell, a piece of mind and truth unrivaled by anything ever said, or ever done.

His voice failed him and his face crumbled; he stared into her eyes for a few agonizing seconds, shaking his head. His gaze was filled with speechless disbelief, as if he'd never known himself until that moment. A wall inside Hermione's heart collapsed with a mighty crash and she threw her arms around his neck with a cry, swallowing past the hoarse sobs that rose in her throat. He clutched her to his chest with panicky tightness, burying his face in her hair.

Then, he pulled her towards him by the hand holding her wrist. Surprised, she stumbled forward, and fell against him. And he kissed her. He had obviously put everything he had, every ounce of feeling for her, every vestige of passion and every shred of frustrated love, into that kiss. At the time though, she was only aware that her knees were buckling and there was a roaring sound in her ears as if someone were holding seashells over them. She shut her eyes and saw lightning dart across her inner lids. This was magic, but it was the sort that Hermione was experiencing for the first time. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his back but no matter how she tried she couldn't hold him any tighter. "Ron, I don't..." she began, and then all at once found that she could not continue because his lips were in the way, pressing urgently against her own.

Her mind was racing. She slid her hands around to the back of his neck and stood on tiptoe to bring her lips to his, hesitantly; his arms encircled her with light pressure to draw her closer. Once the contact was made, however, all restraint vanished as if a switch had been thrown. He plunged his fingers into her hair and she melted against him, tightening her arms around his shoulders as they kissed, caught up in a tidal wave of passion so intense Hermione had to wonder where it had come from...or perhaps it had been there all along, just biding its time.

Her mind was spinning and spinning and her bones felt like they were liquefying inside her skin, his body heat warming her all over. He took a breath and seemed about to speak; she dragged his lips back to hers, cutting off his words. She angled her head towards him, both of them bound up by a strange urgency that made her pull him closer, small sounds escaping her throat, and made him kiss her harder so she could scarcely breathe.

"Hermione..." He stopped briefly, his breath coming out in low gasps. Hermione felt his heart beat as wildly as her own as she held him close. She stared at his face, memorizing every detail. Every scar. Every freckle. Every dimple like her own. She felt herself smile. "I love you." He said, the truest words he had ever said to her.

Fifty years later, he was still saying those three magic little words. And she never got tired of it.


End file.
